


Apocalyptic

by oswhine



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:22:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4532445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswhine/pseuds/oswhine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two boys, at war with themselves, in love with each other, but too proud to say the word 'love'. Rovinsky. AU where Kavinsky doesn't die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hot

**Author's Note:**

> the first lines (in quotations) were written by Maggie Stiefvater, not me, and of course the characters by created by her. fun fact: when I was writing this I completely forgot how to spell 'took' while writing this and I spent like a minute trying to remember and ended up spelling it 'toke'. the chapter titles are named after sensations/feelings.

"'Come down, you bastard!'

Kavinsky didn't answer.

There was that _whoof_ he'd heard in the dream, that clap of wings against air. Like an explosion taking all the oxygen from a room.

Ronan...ducked his head."

Eyes squeezed tight, breathing in the comforting smell of Matthew's curls, he hugged his brother as close to him as he could. He braced himself as he felt the impact of the fire dragon crashing into the Mitsubishi, the wave of heat the impact sent out, the horrible noise of the fire consuming the car, that rush of the greedy flames, the screaming of the car as the fire melted and twisted it. A priceless dream burned in a few minutes.

_Kavinsky. That stupid bastard._

Footsteps. Someone was standing over him. Maybe it was Gansey, relieved and sweaty. Or Blue, small and shaken. Or one of Kavinsky's dream pack, blaming him for the death of their leader, ready to make him pay. But it felt like all the fight had gone from him, had been burned up like the Mitsubishi. Kavinsky had always been the ultimate opponent, and now he was gone. Burned. Dead. Gone to that dream land in the sky that he'd always tried to escape to, with all those pills and drugs and dream things. A land without nightmares.

"Wow, Lynch, are you crying?"

A familiar voice, haunting his empty mind. Ronan looked up, his face brushing Matthew's soft curls, to see a ghost standing over him. That was the only way Kavinsky could be looking down at him right now, face smudged with black, a superior smirk on his face.

Or it was an illusion, an effect of the smoke stinging his eyes, which must also account for his watery eyes.

"Dying's for the weak." Kavinsky was still smirking.

"You fucking bastard!" And just like that, the fire was back, burning inside Ronan. He stood up roughly, letting go of Matthew, afraid his grip would be too tight on him. He shoved Kavinsky against one of the Mitsubishi duplicates, snarling, wild.

But Kavinsky just laughed. "Upset that I didn't die, Lynch?" Then, quieter: "I know you're glad that I'm still kicking." Then, casually, he lifted his hand to Ronan's where it clutched his collar. It rested there, spider-like. His skin felt warm and rough, foreign and at the same time something Ronan had been looking for a long time, even if he hadn't known it. Ronan stared at Kavinsky's hand.

"You're boring me," said Kavinsky. "Do or die, Lynch. I don't have time for people who waste it."

Ronan brought his eyes up to the other boy's face, his fierce tiger eyes, wearing his mask of confidence and ease. But Ronan could see how thin his skin was, see his sharp cheekbones almost cutting through. He reached his other hand up and wiped at some of the ash right there, feeling the hard bone beneath. Was this the real Kavinsky, or just another mask underneath, an added layer of protection? He cast the thought away. In this moment, it didn't matter. Kavinsky was alive, and Ronan was again after that tight minute when he'd thought Kavinsky was dead, and the thought had killed him too. But now they were both alive, surrounded by flickering fires and smoke. It was the perfect moment for this to happen. The only moment when it could happen.

Ronan leaned forward and kissed Kavinsky. But it wasn't a kiss; they were two weapons locked in battle, pushing and pulling at the other, fierce and relentless, teeth biting chapped lips, thumbs locked in the hollows of collarbones and pressing at tightened tendons in necks, exhilarated.

When they pulled away from each other they were both breathing heavily. They stared into each other's eyes, both more wary of each other than they'd been a moment before.

"Ronan?" A small voice, below him. Matthew.

"It's alright," he said, "You're safe. It's over now." But he wasn't sure if it was.

 


	2. Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronan struggles with telling Kavinsky, a boy who takes everything too lightly, to stop using his Greywaren abilites.

Ronan didn't know how to handle Kavinsky now. Before they could've raced, fought, bantered - but now they shared something more than just two bloody lips. He had to convince Kavinsky to stop taking things from dreams. Kavinsky wasn't the sentimental type, he wouldn't say, "All my dreams have come true now, I don't need that anymore." He was greedy, the type of boy who wanted everything in the world. And what were they to each other? They had shared a savage, apocalyptic kiss. Now what? Was that it? Was the game was over now, had Kavinsky won his prize and tossed it aside because the challenge was over? Ronan wouldn't make it easy for him. The challenge was never over.

The day after Kavinsky's Independance Day party: a text from Kavinsky: _meet me at the spot where dreams r made_. Only Ronan would know where it was.

He didn't like being summoned. He wasn't a dog. He waited an hour after the text to leave, jittery, jingling his car keys, making sure the others were out. Why did this feel like he was doing something wrong? He shook off the feeling and drove.

Kavinsky was lying on the hood on one of the endless white cars, staring up at the sky, sunny and blue once again. He didn't look annoyed that Ronan was late, or anxious that he wasn't going to show up, he just looked bored. But that was Kavinsky.

Ronan drove up beside him and rolled down his window. The two boys stared at each other.

"So," Kavinsky said in that slow, easy way of his, "You decided to show."

Ronan said nothing.

Kavinsky sat up. He raised an eyebrow.

Ronan turned off the engine of the BMW. He stepped out and climbed on top of the car next to Kavinsky, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from his body. He turned his head to the side and Kavinsky was already looking at him. He parted his lips slowly. Ronan could see his tongue moving around his mouth, across his teeth, front, then bottom.  He reached his hand over to touch Ronan's jaw, pulled him towards him, their lips meeting, fighting, passion.

"You have to stop," said Ronan, once they were separate again.

"What?" Said Kavinsky, almost letting his guard down. Almost.

"No more Mitsubishis," Ronan said slowly, in an almost torturous way.

Kavinsky's eyes narrowed. "If you think that just because we fucking made out twice, you can control me, Lynch, we're going back to racing in the streets because you have no idea who the fuck I am."

"You have to."

"Who says?"

"You have no idea how much damage you're causing."

Kavinsky licked his lips, a smile forming on his face, the smile of a predator. "Good. I like to cause damage."

He didn't see. He was too self-assured, too selfish, to see. And he was too hidden for Ronan to know what would work on him. He would have to see under the sunglasses to know what would convince him. It would be delicate work, like picking things out of dreams.

Ronan felt the fire flaring inside him. He just wanted to make Kavinsky see, right now. But the easy way was always impossible.

He shoved Kavinsky off the car. Kavinsky just laughed. Ronan leaned over and could see him leaning on his elbows, careless, uncaring. The fire roared fiercely inside Ronan still, but it wasn't out of frustration any more, but something else.

"What are you going to do, Lynch? Kill me?" The words stretched teasingly from Kavinsky's lips. He laughed, long and loud, looking up to the sky.

Ronan left him there, laughing to the heavens.

 

~

 

When his phone buzzed he assumed the text was from Kavinsky, and left it lying there on the seat until he'd got back to Monmouth. But it was from Matthew:

_Who was that guy?_

A question Ronan didn't even know the answer to.


	3. Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronan and Kavinsky meet at Agionby, abandoned for the summer, and their relationship progresses.

The next time Kavinsky summoned Ronan they met at the school, empty and haunted with the ghosts of memories for the summer. The windows were the eyes to the buildings’ soul, and while during the school year they were alive and ever-flickering, now they were empty and dull.

Ronan got the feeling Kavinsky was punishing him in some way by asking him to meet here, as if saying he wasn’t worthy of visiting his dream place any longer. Maybe he had somehow dug his fingers into the real Kavinsky after all.

“I don’t understand you,” were Kavinsky’s first words. He was appraising Ronan through those sunglasses that hid everything, another punch of punishment that was meant to hit Ronan in the gut. And it did. He felt more locked out than ever. “I’m always the one setting up our _playdates_ ,” (he said the word with a poisonous, cunning smile), “But you always come eagerly when you’re called. Is it your pride? Can’t you just face it? We’re a thing now,” he stepped closer, “We’re both in the same tangled mess.” He tilted his head.

Ronan didn’t know how to reply. He just knew that the whole time Kavinsky had spoken, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off that thorned smile. It somehow welcomed him, like the needle that had pricked Sleeping Beauty’s thumb, sent her into dreams of true love’s kiss, her only hope. That smile produced the same effect in Ronan.

“Lynch? Are you a fucking mute? You know, the whole strong and silent thing is only attractive to a point.” He took another step closer to Ronan. “I want to crack you open so that all the words you don’t say spill out.” It sounded almost like a threat. Was Ronan ever going to see the Kavinsky who wasn’t dangerous? But then the answer slipped into his mind: _Only if you show him your self that isn’t dangerous._

Ronan was the one who stepped forward this time, all the way until his nose was touching Kavinsky’s, and then closer still, until their lips were barely touching and he could feel Kavinsky’s quickening breath slipping inside his mouth. _This is the me you wanted to see_ , Ronan breathed back, showing Kavinsky the soft, gentle, more-vulnerable-than-anyone-knew Ronan Lynch. His lips, instead of fighting against Kavinsky’s, pressed into them with the care of a mother kissing a picture of her missing child goodnight. He let himself relax, something he realised he’d never done before with Kavinsky, and he felt, his heart jumping quickly, the other boy following his actions. They melted into each other. They were not two warring bodies this time, but one, fluid being, and they didn’t let go of each other even when they walked off the path onto the grass under a tree with leaves that were the greenest green Ronan had ever seen before, and the sky was the bluest blue, and Kavinsky was leaning his head on Ronan’s chest and his hand was sliding down underneath his shirt with infinite softness that Ronan had never expected in Kavinsky, a boy with nerves jarred by drugs and spikes protruding from his skin, down, down, touching every lonely part of Ronan and making him gasp faintly, involuntarily. And he could still see that familiar threatening light shining in Kavinsky’s eyes after he’d shaken his sunglasses off, he was both, and Ronan was both, and they were each other, and everything was perfect like it hadn’t been since before Niall Lynch had died.

The next time they met Kavinsky had a new Mitsubishi in his fleet with velvety soft seats that felt just right on naked skin. Ronan didn’t have the heart to reprimand him.

 

~ 

But it wasn’t always like that. _Scared_ wouldn’t be the right word because Kavinsky didn’t seem afraid of anything, not even his own nightmares, but he didn’t like to show this softer side to Ronan often, as if it weakened him somehow every time he let his guard down.

And Ronan knew he’d only scratched the surface of Kavinsky’s armor, an armor that was carefully made and presented to the world. Every day Ronan was with him, he saw more clearly how hard Kavinsky had to try to appear careless. But at the same time, it didn’t show him the Kavinsky that cared as a whole picture. He was there, in pieces; when his touch changed from rough to soft as his hand cupped Ronan’s jaw; the way he rubbed at the hair on the back of his head, and sometimes, this self shone out of Kavinsky’s eyes, but it was never for more than a second, something that if Ronan hadn’t been looking into Kavinsky’s eyes so intently he would have missed, like an astronomer avidly watching the skies for Haley’s comet.

And every day Ronan hoped impossibly that just his presence would be enough to stop Kavinsky’s dream-stealing.


	4. Dizzy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People always think escaping will change everything and it never does, except for just this once.

The day Kavinsky called Ronan by his first name was the same day Gansey found out about the two of them.

They had driven for miles in Kavinsky’s fastest, smoothest Mitsubishi. He even let Ronan drive it for a bit, and to Ronan it was perfect. But Kavinsky wasn’t satisfied; it wasn’t good enough for him; he wanted a god’s perfection. But they drove it anyway, away from the beat of Henrietta, far, far, away, and Ronan hoped that leaving behind home would leave behind the need for pretending and acting. He hoped that this trip would strip Kavinsky down to the skin, and then peel even that off so he was just blood and muscle, human, unhidden, with a beating heart that Ronan could take in his hands and hold to his ear so that the beat of Kavinsky’s heart would echo in his eardrum forever. But he knew hopes were as insubstantial as clouds; it was stupid to trust them. It was enough just to be sitting next to a boy that could light his nerves on fire, and to rest his hand on the back of that boy’s headrest with the ease of two people long married.

They stopped at a roadside bar, the kind with windows turned opaque with grime and with neon signs all colours of paradise beckoning to long haul truckers and runaways.

They went in, flashed their fake IDs, sat at the edge of the bar. Dream drugs could send you over the rainbow, but dream food and drink always tasted flat and empty. Kavinsky drank with his right hand, Ronan with his left, so that in between sips they could rest the backs of their hands together.

They talked about nothing things, their conversation melting into the hum of voices and neon lights in the bar. Ronan felt peaceful. Peaceful, in a bar full of men with switchbacks tucked in their boots and guns in the back of their trucks, the type of men who would kill a boy who kissed other boys. Peaceful, sitting next to a weapon, far away from home. He nudged Kavinsky’s foot under the table and he kicked back, turning toward Ronan with a snarling smile on his face and it took all of Ronan’s strength not to lean over and kiss his lips with the force that he had kicked him with. But for now, a kick would have to equal a kiss.

Ronan’s phone rested on top of the bar and it started to vibrate jerkily. Kavinsky picked it up, put it to his ear, and said lazily, “Dick.”

Ronan stiffened. Gansey would guess his secret before Kavinsky could insinuate it. And because it had been a secret for so long, because he’d kept this hidden, it felt like a betrayal. But he hadn’t picked Kavinsky’s side, he hadn’t left Gansey’s. What did that make him? A fucking double agent or something?

He could hear Gansey’s alert tones buzzing through Kavinsky’s fingers.

“Breathe into a paper bag, Dickie, and relax,” Kavinsky said, casually tracing the veins in the wooden bartop, “He’s right here, fit as a fucking fiddle. Say hi, Lynch,” he held the phone up, but Ronan’s mouth was dry and he couldn’t find the right words. Kavinsky raised his eyebrows at Ronan before settling the phone back against his ear. “Well, you know Lynch. The strong and silent type. But he’s here.”

He paused as Gansey said something. Ronan looked at the floor, his scuffed shoe, feeling strangely calm. The eye of the storm.

“‘Where’s here?’ I don’t fucking know, some shitty bar in Nowheresville. Don’t think you’re going to drive out here, you’re not Lynch’s mother.” As if realising what he’d said, he reached out and touched Ronan’s arm lightly with his fingertips. They were cold after being wrapped around his beer bottle.

“Sure,” he said, and held out the phone to Ronan. “He wants to speak to you.”

Ronan took it, and then Gansey’s voice was saying in his ear: “Ronan? Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m with Kavinsky. It’s fine, we’re just drinking at this bar.”

“Why are you with Kavinsky? Are you trying to get him to stop taking things from dreams?”

Ronan didn’t say anything, and he felt the weight and meaning of his silence hit Gansey.

“Oh no. Why him?”

Ronan didn’t have an answer he could put into words.

“He’s going to destroy you like he destroys everything he touches. You know him.”

“I’m not sure I do,” said Ronan quietly.

“Is this what you really want? Is this making you happy?”

Did anyone know what they really wanted? “Yes,” Ronan said, pretending he was sure.

“Alright. Just try to convince him to stop while you’re at it. If you can’t do it, I don’t know if anyone can. Good luck, Lynch.”

“Thanks,” Ronan said, and he hung up.

“Well? Has he given you his blessing?” Asked Kavinsky with a sardonic smile as Ronan put the phone down.  

“Fuck off,” Ronan said, rubbing his skull.

“I’m just playing with you.” He ordered two more beers for them, and kicked Ronan’s foot again to show that it was ok. “You’re fun to play with.” A glint of teeth, reflecting the pink fluorescent light above the bar.

They went back to the car, parked in shadow in the corner of the parking lot, and Ronan could let go of the feelings that had shifted inside him restlessly in the bar, and push out all thoughts of Gansey. Then he stopped, and their foreheads rested against each other, their breathing heavy. Ronan was slightly disappointed but not surprised that this was still the hard Kavinsky he was pushing up against, until Kavinsky breathed:

“Ronan.”

His breath caught in his throat, and then, in a rush, before the moment slipped away from him, “Joseph.”

Kavinsky chuckled, kissed Ronan once, and then slid out of the car and got back into the driver’s seat. Ronan joined him. Kavinsky was like a shelf of mysteries, each one calling to be read and solved. Ronan hadn’t figured out what this one meant yet.

 


	5. Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kavinsky’s brush with death had made him feel invincible, because he had cheated it, jumped away from Death’s skeletal hand at the last minute, but he didn’t realise that all he’d escaped from was himself."

_Kavinsky chuckled, kissed Ronan once, and then slid out of the car and got back into the driver’s seat. Ronan joined him. Kavinsky was like a shelf of mysteries, each one calling to be read and solved. Ronan hadn’t figured out what this one meant yet._

 

Then there was nothing. A whole day of no communication. It was hard to believe that Kavinsky had set him adrift after that night hidden from the neon lights beckoning from the bar, hard to believe that after waiting unconsciously so long for him to say Ronan’s beer-scented name like a prayer, he had cut ties between the two of them with scissors sharp and gleaming. The feeling of something wrong pressed against Ronan’s gut, and so he drove out to the abandoned fairground, his foot involuntarily pressing down the accelerator with twitches of urgency.

He drove down the first row of cars, seeing nothing, not even something imagined from the corner of his eye in panic. And then, looking back, scanning the forest of cars for anything, he saw, so faint, on the right side of a car’s nose so that he wouldn’t even have seen it if he hadn’t looked back - a red handprint. It was so clear it looked almost like a trick, Kavinsky’s way of scaring emotions out of Ronan. So he moved forward cautiously, waiting for him to jump out and yell “Boo!”, hands grasping Ronan’s shoulders. But there was nothing but the wind winding leisurely through the stubby grass he trod upon.

Between the marked car and the next the grass was flattened down, _as if someone had lain here helplessly_ , Ronan thought. He looked around, inside the car, nothing, nothing, nothing, but then - underneath, the gray tone of shadowed flesh. He plunged his arm under the car, grasping the first thing his urgent fingers touched. A human arm. And then he was dragging an unconscious Kavinsky out from one of his fucking royal Mitsubishis.

He shook him violently as he if he was trying to shake something out of him, and his hands came away wet with - blood. Fake? Ronan’s mind darted back to his first theory about Kavinsky’s disappearance, and he shook him even harder - but there was no response. He turned him over onto his back and saw his ridiculous white tank top, slashed and stained with blood. _He’d gone too far_. Kavinsky’s brush with death had made him feel invincible, because he had cheated it, jumped away from Death’s skeletal hand at the last minute, but he didn’t realise that all he’d escaped from was himself.

Ronan reached his shaking hand up to the unconscious boy’s neck, where only the yesterday he’d planted ferocious, nipping kisses, trying to calm himself and just _listen_ , _feel_.

There. A faint pulse, tripping unsurely beneath his fingertips. The stupid bastard was alive, barely.

The rest of the day, smeared with equal parts relief and unspeakable anger; dragging Kavinsky into the backseat of Ronan’s car, driving to the hospital where he left him after giving a few vague grunts of explanation, heading towards Monmouth and then changing his mind and just driving, driving, until he had to escape the car and stand by the side of the road and scream a thousand feelings out in one long breath. Then he went home.

****  
  



	6. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What do you bring a monster who’s in the hospital? Roses with the sharpest thorns that draw blood when you lean in to savour their scent, balloons swollen with poison gas for them to swallow down like little kids taking helium, a fanged beast for it to cuddle for comfort?"

He didn’t feel ashamed about not going to visit Kavinsky in hospital at first, until he realised every day he stayed away was like a big screaming ‘I TOLD YOU SO,’ and that wasn’t what he wanted Kavinsky to think his absence meant.

What do you bring a monster who’s in the hospital? Roses with the sharpest thorns that draw blood when you lean in to savour their scent, balloons swollen with poison gas for them to swallow down like little kids taking helium, a fanged beast for it to cuddle for comfort?

In the end Ronan bought him a teddy bear hugging a heart that read: _Get Well Soon_! He felt Kavinsky would appreciate the sarcasm.

People think hospitals smell like sickness. But they really smell like sadness, wafting off the visitors, not the patients, and this smell was choking Ronan as he walked along the hospital corridor towards Kavinsky’s room, tracing the mint green line painted horizontally on the wall with two fingers. There was the room, and there was the moment's hesitation before he plunged in. And there was Kavinsky, sitting up in his hospital bed, looking as disdainful as ever. His chest, sticking out of the hospital blanket, was wrapped in bandages, and he was sucking at the straw of an orange-flavoured juice box. He didn’t look as if he’d almost died only a few days ago.

Ronan tossed the teddy bear on the bed, and Kavinsky’s slitted eyes watched it. He slowly lowered the juice box from his lips.

“You abandon me here for five days and then you show up with a fucking teddy bear? What the fuck?”

A nurse emerged from behind the curtain that divided the room in half, frowning. “Mr Kavinsky, how many times do I have to tell you? Let Mrs Peterson live her last few days in peace,” she said in a hushed voice.

“Why the fuck would I care about Mrs Peterson?” Kavinsky’s hand was clenched into a fist on top of the bed covers. Ronan could see he was more angry at _him_ than at the nurse.

“You would, if you had even a spark of sympathy in your body. If you carry on like this, I’m going to have to seriously report you to the head doctor.”

“Well, good, if that means I’ll get a new room. _I’m fucking sick of Mrs Peterson and her stink of death_ ,” he said, raising his voice.

The nurse looked like she wanted to slap him, but instead she walked swiftly from the room, skirt swishing around her legs.

Kavinsky tossed his juice box onto the floor.

“Why did you do that?” Asked Ronan. He felt so tired.

“It’s not like they can do anything to me, I’m their patient. Why does it even matter?”

So Kavinsky’s second brush with death had only strengthened his feeling of invulnerability.

“Why did you come here anyway? Just to act like pussy-fucking boots and shake your fucking finger at me and scold me for being such a naughty boy?” Kavinsky’s smile stretched dangerously.

Ronan just looked down at him, stony-faced. “You know one day you really will die.”

“So what? Living’s overrated.”

“I’m sure Mrs Peterson wouldn’t agree with you.” Ronan acted calm, but Kavinsky’s words worried him more than anything else he’d seen him do.

“Fuck Mrs Peterson!” Kavinsky burst out, so violently that spit flew from his lips. He wiped his mouth angrily and glared at Ronan. Ronan glared back, and it felt like old times, both of them locked in the battle neither of them would ever win.  

“ _Everything_ about living’s overrated?”

A nasty smile formed on Kavinsky’s face. “If you’re trying to trick me into saying something I probably won’t believe in ten years, tough-fucking-luck, Lynch. Now get the fuck out of my room and leave the invalid to rest.” He placed his hand on his chest, right over his heart, and he’d meant it to seem strong and invincible but he did it so gingerly that Ronan could see how much pain Kavinsky was hiding behind his swear words and don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. And Kavinsky could see this realisation form in Ronan’s eyes, and this involuntary show of weakness - something his whole personality was built to hide - flared up a furious burst of anger inside him. “I said GET THE FUCK OUT!” He yelled.

And Ronan left - but not before he could see Kavinsky wincing from the force of his words out of the corner of his eye.

He passed the nurse from Kavinsky’s room and a doctor on his way out, hurrying towards the echo of Kavinsky’s cries, cold, serious looks pasted on their faces. For a moment he could see Kavinsky, inside out, all the emotions he kept bottled up inside, the little boy that still lived in the bottom of his ribcage, and Ronan felt sorry for him - but then the illusion vanished and Kavinsky was just as impenetrable as always.

****  
  



	7. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronan's reunion with Kavinsky, after the latter's physical wounds have healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can tell you now that there's only one chapter left after this one and it's a heartbreaker (imho) so prepare yourselves. Thanks for all the kudos, it really means a lot to me!!

He didn’t know how they would mend things between them. Kavinsky wasn’t the kind of person who accepted apologies and welcomed you back into his arms, and he definitely wasn’t the type of person who made them. There was nothing Ronan could do but wait.

Days passed. He picked up nervous habits: drumming his fingers on his thigh, bouncing his legs up and down when he was seated, cracking his knuckles. His mind was simultaneously trying not to think of Kavinsky and forever focused on him.

And then Kavinsky was released from the hospital. Ronan heard it through rumours, the hushed gossip of Aglionby boys out of their uniforms, looking more alike than they did when they were wearing them. He went back to the abandoned fairground, but Kavinsky wasn’t there. Desperation wasn’t something that easily grasped Ronan, so he didn’t go back. He took to roaming the streets, a secret hope tucked inside him of seeing the red tail lights of one of Kavinsky’s herd of Mitsubishis. But he never did.

Then, one especially hot day, wandering the mall with Adam and Gansey, he glanced into the arcade, and there he was, face streaked with the red blinking lights of the pinball machine he was hunched over, the same Kavinsky.

“See you later,” he mumbled distractedly to his friends, then crossed over to the dim arcade, pings and beeps and guitar riffs from car driving games inviting him to come in and forget how much money he was changing into quarters for some cheap fun. He leaned on the side of the pinball machine, standing over Kavinsky, so focused on his game that Ronan knew he knew he was there, and who he was. He waited, watching the lights play on Kavinsky’s face, at his hands flinching as he pumped the controls. There _was_ something changed about him, a new tattoo, dark and scabbed on his middle finger: a grinning skull.

“Joseph,” Ronan said finally, quietly, so that he barely heard himself over the background noise.

“Fuck you,” replied Kavinsky under his breath, “You don’t have the right to call me that anymore.”

There was a pause.

“I like your tattoo.”

No reply.

Ronan grew impatient of those unfocused eyes. Why was he here, why was he almost begging to get back into Kavinsky’s favour?

He reached down and grabbed Kavinsky’s shoulders, slamming him against the Pac-Man machine behind him.

“No, fuck _you_. What the fuck did I do wrong? I saved your goddamn life! I don’t owe anything to you, so why do you keep making me feel like I do?”

Kavinsky finally looked up at him and spat in Ronan’s face. “Like hell you did nothing wrong. You left me to rot in the hospital. Did you really think only one visit was enough? After everything? Did you think a goddamn teddy bear would make everything better? Teddy bears don’t heal _shit_. Let go of me before it’s my fist and not my spit on your face, although you like that, don’t you?” The smirk that began to crawl up his face was stopped by Ronan’s knuckles ramming into his cheek.

This was it. The fight their whole relationship had waited for. It was dirty, cruel, and as violent as their lovemaking had been. It was a fight that left them both bruised and battered and banned from the arcade. But somehow, once they wore matching bruises on their cheekbones, everything was ok again. Of course Kavinsky’s apologies were fights.

They went to McDonald’s and ordered ice creams because no one could fuck with them now or tell them men didn’t order swirled soft serve ice cream because they had blood trickling onto their lips and bloody knuckles and the confident attitude that comes after a fight.

Sitting in a booth, in the back of the restaurant, licking their ice creams and giving I-dare-you stares to anyone who tried to come close, Kavinsky kicked the toes of Ronan’s shoes under the table and he knew he really was forgiven.


	8. Sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An end to this story, among other things.

There were sunshine days, just the two of them, doing whatever the hell they wanted. But the sunniest days have the most shadows and the shadows cast behind Ronan and Kavinsky were the darkest.

There was always tension between them; Ronan knew he had to end Kavinsky’s dreaming, but it was the one thing he felt too weak to be able to do; they had both learnt to trust slowly, to conceal their secrets and feelings, and it was hard to stop and let someone in through the cracks in yourself.

But Ronan grew tired; it was hard to be constantly in battle, especially with someone you loved.

One night they met in a crappy motel, a motel made for lover’s fights. They had lain under the thin, scratchy bedspread and touched the whole world of each other’s bodies. Now Ronan was lying down on the bed and Kavinsky was sitting up against it, smoking a joint.

“You have to stop.”

Kavinsky recognized the threat that hung in the air after the period and said, “Or what?”

“I’ll leave. You’ll never talk to me again.”

Kavinsky laughed once, a dark, short laugh warning of a storm to come. “You haven’t even told me a real reason why not.”

Ronan hesitated, not knowing whether to tell the truth and betray his friends’ trust or if it was worth the risk because it might stop Kavinsky. But an excuse that wouldn’t benefit him wouldn’t suit his purposes.

“Isn’t it enough to know that I can’t tell you, that’s how dangerous it is?”

“' _Dangerous_.'” He repeated the word as if savouring a favourite meal. “I live - “

“Yes, _I know you fucking live on dangerous_ but isn’t that fucking impractical?” Ronan hadn’t even realised he had sat up until he found himself wobbling on his knees from the force of his words.

Kavinsky tilted his head back so that he could see Ronan, but Ronan could only see his eyes and those dark eyelashes. He said nothing.

“You can’t live on just one thing, especially if it’s danger! Can’t you just let this one dangerous thing go?”

“Because it seems to mean so much to you, no.”

Ronan stared at him. Kavinsky took his eyes off Ronan’s and lowered his head, breathing out a stream of smoke.

And now he was even angrier, all the frustration he’d ever felt for Kavinsky just pouring out: “Just stop! Stop being so fucking calm all the time! You’re not a fucking robot!” He had his arms around Kavinsky’s neck, and Kavinsky’s face was getting red, and his hands were tugging at Ronan’s arms, and then suddenly he swung Ronan over his head so that he crashed into the wall opposite him, slumped on the ground. Ronan shook his head, dazed, and the first thing he sensed when he recovered himself was the smell of burning. The cheap motel carpet was on fire, ignited by the end of Kavinsky’s joint, and Kavinsky himself was just staring at it, blank eyes reflecting the flames. And Ronan remembered his anger, and stamped the fire out with his shoes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Kavinsky just looked at him, running a thumb across his lower lip.

“Why can’t you ever say something you really mean or show that you’re fucking human?”

“Emotions are for the weak, Lynch.”

“If you think emotions are only for weak people than you’re the weak one! See this?” He hit himself in the chest, feeling it reverberate in his heart. “This anger? I feel stronger with it, numbness just creates more numbness, emotions generate strength!”

Kavinsky’s eyes were trained on Ronan’s now, and it looked like there was something stirring deep within them, but maybe it was just the last fading embers of the fire.

“I’m sick of you, I’m sick of this! I can’t be with someone who acts like they don’t care about me or anything else!”

“You think just because I don’t show my feelings like every other dull person on this planet I don’t have any?” Kavinsky growled.

“No, I think you just hide them because you do, you do think emotions are for the weak, you stupid, deluded bastard!”

“And are you showing your true emotions right now? Is this what you really think of me, Lynch?” Kavinsky was standing too, and they were only inches apart, both shaking from the tension electrifying the dull, dusty air of the motel room.

“Right now I do because I’m fucking angry!” Then, slightly quieter, “Yes, that’s how I feel.” But it wasn’t an addition to the sentence, a footnote revealing the true meaning, just a continuation of it.

“Fine.” Kavinsky’s hands were in tight fists, knuckles white and bursting out of his skin. “Then we don’t have anything to talk about.” He started to turn away but Ronan caught his shoulder.

“You don’t understand, exactly what I want to do is talk! But really, actually _talk_! Not banter, not fence with words for rapiers!” He leaned closer to Kavinsky so that his words brushed against his skin, “I just want to know you.”

But Kavinsky didn’t give in. “You seem to have a pretty fucking good idea of who I am already.”

“No!” Frustrated, Ronan gripped Kavinsky’s shoulder harder. “I want to learn about the person who’s hiding underneath all that, the person I’ve only seen whispers of.”

Kavinsky’s lip curled. “Aren’t you fucking eloquent, Mr Prep School Vice President.”

Ronan let his hand fall away, and they both turned so their backs were facing each other, cold and hot at the same time.

“What are you afraid of?” Ronan asked quietly.

“Afraid of?” Kavinsky whirled around, a dog snapping at bait, teeth bared, spit flying from its jaws. “Have you even looked around you? At the world? Or are you so oblivious, like every other human fly on this fucking planet? Or no wait, I know, your world revolves around goddamn Dick Gansey who is under the delusion that the world is a fairytale and he’s just blinded you into thinking that too.”

Ronan clenched his teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He and Kavinsky had had their physical battle that their relationship had led up to, now this was the verbal one and they were right in the thick of it.  

Kavinsky jumped in further, “I bet that’s why you want me to stop taking advantage of my Greywaren abilities too! Because of that fucking pretentious idiot!”

“Are you _jealous_?” Ronan said the words more out of spite than the actual feeling behind them, but Kavinsky recoiled as if Ronan had thrown a punch.

“I give anything in the world to not be Dick Gansey,” he said, “He’s everything I hate in a person. He’s locked in a fantasy. He can’t see what’s right in front of his face, and that’s partly because of his pampered childhood. He’s still a spoilt child and I don’t know how you can stand him, Lynch, unless you like playing Daddy so you can pretend you’re your own father.”

He’d known the words would hurt. He’d used the most poisonous ones, sharpened his blade well. But instead of lashing out Ronan felt himself fill with a cold, still feeling, like an icy pool.

“I give up,” Ronan said the words while he picked his jacket from the chair in the corner and turned towards the door, avoiding looking at Kavinsky and pink heat that had risen in his cheeks that made his eyes look sharper and brighter and more diverse.

“You’re never going to show yourself, are you? Not even to me, the one who - “ Ronan broke off angrily.

Kavinsky just looked at him. The fight seemed to have died in him too.

“The one who what?” He asked when Ronan didn’t fill the silence either.

“You know what I meant.”

“Now who’s the one who won’t show their true feelings?” Kavinsky hissed.

“Fuck you, why the hell should I say it? You don’t seem to care about me with even an inch of you. And maybe we are alike in more ways than one, and I’m reluctant to say what I feel too, but there should be at least one person in this world you hate so much that you can share your soul with.”

“And you want that person to be you?” Kavinsky paused. “And I’m the person you want to share your soul with?”

Ronan tilted his head, not revealing anything, but not hiding anything either.

“And what happens in six months or so when we part ways? When you paint the town with all my deepest darkest secrets and my innermost thoughts? The walls would be so dark you could fall into them. And I would have shared these privacies with one person but they will get spread to hundreds. I don’t want my life in a hundred people’s hands.”

“Do you really think I’m like that?” Ronan asked.

“You’ve already shown yourself to be a righteously angry person, so yeah. This is why you never offer yourself to anyone.”

Ronan shook his head.

“You’re fucking insane, man. I can’t live inside your crazy world any more.” He turned to go, his jacket hanging heavy over his shoulder.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

Ronan turned around slowly. “Do what?”

Kavinsky flicked his eyes up at Ronan once. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I’ll stop it - I’ll stop dreaming.” His eyes looked up at Ronan again, then back down. “I will,” he said defensively.

“Maybe you will,” Ronan said, “But if I can’t trust you how can I believe you?”

Those were the last words he spoke to Kavinsky. A few days later his car was found, crashed into a gorge. An accident. The papers called him ‘a young man with a bright future ahead of him,’ like every other teen who died too young. But no one could have written Kavinsky’s obituary right. Because no one knew him. The only person who did was dead, lying in a morgue with fragments of windshield glass pressed into his forehead like jewels in a crown. If they had let Ronan write it, he would have said: Joseph Kavinsky. The unknowable boy. Loved too much and suffered because he hid it. Tormented, pulled apart by emotions inside him like a storm trapped in a glass bottle. Destroyer of worlds and hearts. Full and empty. Old and young and in between. A study in contradictions and impossibilities. A dreamer who didn’t wake up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this, I know my characterization isn't perfect, and this is kinda all over the place, but the beauty of fanfic is reading everyone's different takes on the same characters. Feel free to (PLEASE) comment if you enjoyed my take!


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